1896
by ACleverName
Summary: As alluded to in 1996, Jack Harkness made the acquaintance of Oscar Wilde. Was he out to kill him or to save him?


**1896**

Fellow prisoner in Reading Gaol: Oscar Wilde, I pity you, for you must suffer more than we do.

Wilde: No, my friend, we all suffer alike.

It was 1893, and Captain Jack Harkness had just woken up from a brutal fight. He thought he hadn't survived. He was on Ellis Island, with a rowdy bunch, and he'd gotten stabbed—so he thought. Now there were no bruises, no holes, no blood. He was sitting by himself on the ground and in the blackness of night; he must have been given up for dead. He got to his feet, and a sensation not unlike a hangover assaulted his senses.

"Easy, old chap." Someone struck a match—well, a lucifer—and lit a pipe. Jack winced at the light and suddenly found himself very cold. "The first few minutes are the worst."

Jack strode up and took the man by the collar. "Who are you?"

Most people were intimidated by manhandling from the likes of Jack. The man merely chuckled, a trifle annoyedly, and put up his hands. "I'm not part of that mob."

"Why did you say that?" Jack asked tersely, not letting go.

"What, that the first few minutes are the worst?" He had a lofty tone, pleasant but not inviting trust, as if everything was to him an amusing joke. "Generally after having the tar beaten out of one, that's what one feels."

Jack relaxed slightly, releasing the man's collar. He still could not seem him properly but wondered if his own palpable relief was evident. _I should be dead, _he thought. He was unsettled and slightly nauseous.

"Shall we continue our conversation in better light?" the man asked, still smoking his pipe. Jack could see from his silhouette that he was lanky and wore a bowler hat and a great-coat. The lights from the mainland were dim enough that Jack was puzzled by the man's presence. The island seemed deserted.

The man seemed to read his thoughts. "Officially, I'm not here at all."

Jack stared hard at him. He was feeling in his belt for his pistol and, failing that, his knife. "The, uh, disorientation had me baffled for a bit," he said. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me what secret organization you represent? Maybe I can guess."

The words "Time Agency" were on his lips, but the man interrupted with slow, careful relish. "I make no secret of it. I am in Her Majesty's service."

Jack smiled, tight-lipped. "I doubt the words 'James Bond' mean anything to you?"

The man ignored him completely. "Lord Algernon Scott. Though most people just call me Algie."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "I once knew an Algie." The cuddly moniker fit not at all the debonair cold that wrapped Lord Scott. "You're nothing like him."

"Really? How interesting. I'm on this side of the Atlantic keeping an eye on things," he said, rubbing two gloved hands together. "For Torchwood."

The name meant nothing to Jack, but the significance it apparently held for Scott was impressive. "Well, I'm flattered."

"You should be, Jack."

"We haven't even been introduced yet, Algie—on intimate terms already."

Scott flushed with anger, and Jack grinned unashamedly. "That's still a capital offense where I come from," he said, straightening his cravat.

"We aren't in England," said Jack, teeth shining.

"Oh, but you'll be back," said Scott, clapping him on the shoulder in a mock-friendly gesture. "We'll be watching when you do." He tipped his hat. "Pleasant evening to you."

Torchwood, Jack later learned, was the name of a Scottish estate and of an organization founded by Queen Victoria (covertly, of course) to fight for England's interests in a universe of hostile aliens. Not foreigners, but extra-terrestrials. The idea intrigued and amused Jack, but he thought less and less of it. He did return to England, and he began to recognize Torchwood's presence in public places. The distinguished-looking, inoffensive gentlemen were on the edges of crowds, at the theatre, in the club, in the park—though Jack never had the impression they were specifically interested in him (alas). He attributed Algie's warnings to weakness for his personal charm and left it at that.

Jack never seemed to lack for money or friends in London, using his invented military credentials to convince those he couldn't with his charm. It was inevitable, he supposed, that his path should cross with the lily of Picadilly, a curious celebrity Jack sometimes saw from across the room at the Café Royale, though they were never formally introduced.

It was February 14, 1894, the beginning of obnoxiously saccharine Victorian valentines, and the opening night of _The Importance of Being Earnest. _By early evening there were drifts of snow outside the St. James Theatre, and more was blowing through the streets. Like many other men in black tails and white tie, Jack wore a lily-of-the-valley in his buttonhole. He could be amused by comedy; after all, it was something to take his mind away from the Gamestation, Daleks, and the wrenching sound of the TARDIS abandoning him. The press was waiting for the dramatist at the door; Jack had always admired—and had been a little indebted to—his wit: "The play _is _a success," announced Wilde. "The only question is whether the first night's audience will be one."

Jack went to the theatre alone on this occasion. He had dined at a restaurant, and was ready by nine o'clock to laugh a good deal or else fall asleep. The play was harmless but engaging, and somehow Jack felt more a stranger than ever before. If he was honest, he thought how much he might like to spend an evening with the Doctor like this. He might make a stunning impression, as well, in his suit.

Toward the end of the second act, in the half-darkness of the apron stage, Jack was handed a card. He could barely read it and could not tell from whose hand it had been delivered. The card said nothing but the printed logo of Torchwood, and scribbled on the back, it said, "intermission, outside." Jack suppressed a laugh.

At intermission, he waded through the thick crowd to the drifts of snow outside. He recognized the great-coat and the blue shadow of the bowler on the pavement. "Great Scott," he said with relish.

"Mr. Harkness, you have a good memory." Scott lit his pipe.

"It was just over a year ago," said Jack slowly. "And you predicted I'd be back."

"Can we talk?"

"After the play."

"Come now, Jack, we know how it ends, don't we?" Jack hesitated, unsure whether this was a reference to the superficiality of the plot or to future events.

"I'd like to hear what the author has to say at curtain call."

"Stuff and nonsense," said Scott, putting away his pocket watch. "For once, the Wilde will have nothing to say."

Jack still looked at him suspiciously. "Your place or mine, Algie?"

"I thought a bracing walk . . ."

"Isn't there a Torchwood Club where refined men go to drink brandy? Or is it scotch and soda?"

Scott looked concerned that their conversation might carry over the falling snow. "Don't be disingenuous."

Jack stopped smiling. "I don't have to listen. What profit is this to me?"

Scott cleared his throat. "Do let's walk."

The snow was settling on Jack's dinner jacket and in his hair. Scott criss-crossed the streets of the West End with finesse until they were out of the way of the late-night omnibuses and the rounds of the pastel-wearing prostitutes, shivering in their thin cloaks. Scott offered Jack a flask from inside his coat. Jack took it, then made a face. "I know that taste."

"Good, isn't it?" Scott grinned wolfishly.

"It's vermouth from Rigelis." Jack handed it back. "Is that what Torchwood does? Import and export to the cosmos?"

"Not at all. If England is to protect her borders, she requires the technology to best do so. Fighting fire with fire."

"And spirits with spirits."

Scott nodded, the moonlit snow reflecting on the astrakhan of his great-coat. "If Earth defense requires it."

"And who are we defending it from?"

Scott pointed his pipe in the direction from which they had come. "Him. Oscar Wilde."

Jack burst out laughing. "I've heard some rich ones, but that!" He laughed, reveling in the fact Scott was getting angrier by the minute. "Homophobia is one thing, but Oscar Wilde an alien—!"

"I didn't say he was an alien! Really, you are most juvenile!"

Scott's outburst made Jack want to laugh even harder. He controlled himself with difficulty. "I'm sorry. No, I'm not, but do go on."

Scott smoked. "In little more than a year, Wilde will be in prison." Jack nodded. He would question the foreknowledge later. "While there he will be inspired to write 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol.'"

"And it's a crime against England?"

"Not the poem's content. The syntax, the cadence, the poetic meter. Haven't you ever heard of the Carionite affair of 1599, my boy?"

"Can't say I have."

"Don't neglect your history."

"Why are you telling me this?" Jack tensed.

"Torchwood would like you, Captain Harkness, to see that Wilde does not survive prison."

Jack looked out at the swirling snow. "He didn't live much longer after getting out, did he?"

Scott twitched in a smile. "You could almost say it would come as a relief. Not just to him, but his grieving family as well."

Jack's expression did not change. "When, where, how?"

From Cell C.3.3, Oscar Wilde was enduring his sixth month in confinement at Reading Gaol, and, in total, a year's imprisonment, on April 13, 1896. Jack had all the files, all the dossiers, and though he had been in the prison as a warder for over a month, he had not yet seen the Gaol's most famous—most infamous—inhabitant. Jack had no great love for Isaacson, the prison's Governor, who was cruel and self-aggrandizing—exactly what you'd expect a Governor to be. As a warder, Jack was undistinguished. He'd made himself pleasant at odd moments to the other warders, and he could hardly help if his fantastic good looks singled him out slightly. His studied anonymity, however, ensured that no one batted an eye when he went unaccompanied into Cell C.3.3.

Wilde had been kept in solitary confinement for a sentence of two weeks, on account of speaking out of turn, which was an offense at Reading. He was sitting in his chair, the only furniture allowed in the bare cell. Jack was a tall man, but even gazing at him sitting, he was certain Wilde could meet him eye-to-eye. However, Wilde was pale and gaunt—the report said he'd lost twenty-two pounds—and looked lost, disoriented, dull. He regarded Jack with the barest register of surprise and returned to staring out the window.

His long face looked at odds with the prison regulation haircut, and Jack saw his hands twitching, as if grasping for invisible pen and ink. "Mr. Wilde," said Jack, breaking the stubborn silence, "in about ten minutes, there's going to be a prison break." Now he had Wilde's attention. "Whatever you do, you cannot—I repeat, you cannot leave your cell and try to escape."

Wilde got out of his chair and stared at Jack. It seemed a few moments before he could find his voice. "What on earth are you talking about?" He looked hard at the warder's uniform, as if fearing his mind was creating visions with whom to converse.

Jack moved closer. "If you try to escape, they'll kill you. That's what they want—they want you to die a premature death. You've got to outwit them. No matter how great the temptation—"

"My dear boy, I can resist everything except temptation," said Wilde, offering a small smile.

"That's the spirit," said Jack. He glanced out the window.

Then Wilde lost the faint spark of enthusiasm and grimaced. "Who are you? Why should I listen to you? If indeed I am given a chance to escape, why shouldn't I take it?" Now he, too, was looking out the window eagerly.

"And risk being killed? Think about it, Oscar. How often do escapes succeed? Even if I'm lying, don't you think it's a little bit stupid to—"

"What is life without risk? What is—"

"Oh, spare me your cutting epigrams," Jack said, getting impatient.

"If someone wants me dead, and wants it to appear I brought it on myself," said Wilde, slowly following Jack with his eyes, "why haven't they thought of it before? Why didn't someone push me off the platform at Clapham Junction and have it done with then, hmm?"

This had been a humiliating and painful experience for Wilde, Jack knew. "That's a good point. But I don't have time to explain right now—"

"You have ten minutes!" said Wilde heatedly, advancing on Jack.

"Oh, you wouldn't believe me," said Jack.

"I try to believe several impossible things before breakfast."

Jack laughed. "That, I know for a fact, you stole."

Wilde frowned deeply and, for a moment, Jack thought he would burst into tears. "Perhaps you're right, but if 'tis true, why not get shot or garroted or however you would have me killed when I attempt to escape?" His face was ashen and melancholy as he sat down again. "This is unendurable, sir, unendurable! I am denied writing materials—even De Sade had paper!—I have not seen my sons—" He broke off. "And my wife—" Again he worked hard to conceal his emotion. "I sorely lack all comforts, and I could not see my own mother . . ."

"What I would miss," said Jack, with tender levity, "would be the coffee."

Wilde half-smiled and threw his head back. "Oh, what pleasure to behold a cup of coffee and my own Euripides again!"

"You have to survive," Jack said, speaking low, "because your writing is important, not only to this generation, but to countless others." He was exaggerating only slightly, but was startled by the prophetic, greedy, liquid look coming into Wilde's eyes. He leaned forward in his chair. "Oh, yes? My verses, my prose, are remembered, are coveted? Oh, what a thing, to influence men's _minds!" _ He peered at Jack curiously. "I've had my palm read, but you, sir, really do not compare. What manner of sibyl are you?" Jack did not immediately answer, and Wilde looked out the window again. "Before my mother's death, I had a premonition I'd seen her, dressed for going out. I asked her to stay but—Ah! You knew that already!" Jack moved uncomfortably to the far wall, aware of the seconds ticking by. "I could see it in how your eyes changed. Most extraordinary."

"So you do believe me?"

"I have not spoken to another human being in eight days," said Wilde. "My wits are not what they were. Ask me to deliver a lecture in America now and—You're not from the audience of one of my tours, are you? I daresay you look somewhat familiar now that I look at you."

Jack shook his head, exasperated. "Do I have your word or not that you won't foolishly throw your life away?"

"A rash, ill-tempered young man! I might throw my life away grandly, with panache, and then I will do so---never foolishly."

Jack this time sat down in the chair. "Don't you want to hold out the hope that you might see him again?"

"Who, young man? My maker?"

"Bosie."

The one word had a startling effect on Wilde. "How impertinent!" Then he looked haunted and savage, his eyes ringed in suffering. "How can you possibly know . . ."

"You've been petitioning the prison surgeon," said Jack with pity in his voice, "that you'd like to be 'cured' of your perversity, that you recognize the evil of your ways." Wilde bit his lip. "In the future, no one will suffer for loving like you have. In fact, where I come from . . ." He allowed himself a rakish grin. "Love is love is love, as Gertrude Stein might say." He frowned. "Wait, I don't think she's said that yet."

"You do astound me," said Wilde softly, appearing for the first time to be quite afraid.

"It's my job," said Jack, getting up, "to leave your cell door unlocked when I leave, so that when the escapees try to escape, it will at least look a little believable."

Wilde squinted. "Dear me. So you were supposed to deliver me unto the arms of Death, were you, Warder?" Jack shrugged. "You'll be punished." Wilde winced only as one who knew the true weight of punishment could. "Whatever you do."

"I have a knack for disappearing easily."

Wilde reached for his pocket watch, which of course he did not find, and said with a degree of excitement, "We must have five minutes left. I'm so eager to speak, to reawaken this dulled instrument—you can have no idea of this painful silence I've had to maintain. It is truly inhuman. Worse for the child in prison, of course," he said, paling even further. "With a face a white wedge of pure terror . . ."

"The last thing I can do for you," said Jack, "is see that you are treated better. You've got half your sentence to go, and I'll see if I can pull some strings . . ."

Wilde suddenly flushed violently. "There is so much I have to say, with fluency and passion that could not have occurred even to you, but you must go away, you say. I must be Christ, then, and suffer this temptation? When my door is unlocked, I must sit idly and remain in the chains of my captors?"

"You were brave," said Jack, at long last, "to think you could win that libel case. But no one will remember it that way: they'll see you as foolish and vain."

Wilde pursed his lips. "I'm not certain I believe a word of what you say. Perhaps, like my mother, you are only a shadow."

Jack moved toward the door. "I tried my best. I risked a lot for you."

"If ever my _Dorian _were to be put on stage, I should like someone like you to play the boy. You have his beauty and his terribleness."

Jack himself paled, for it was a more apt comparison than either knew. "I'm leaving the cell door unlocked."

His last view of the famous writer was of his profile at the window.

Jack was just finishing his second promenade around the cemetery at Bagneux. December was layering Paris in a snowstorm not unlike the one in London six years earlier. Jack didn't like visiting graves and never had; call him profane, call him unfeeling. It was unlikely Jack gave a damn what you called him.

But he was at the grave with no offering to a literary luminary, a Decadent and an Aesthete, a proud, self-absorbed man of many talents—who had broken the heart of his wife and in turn had his own heart broken and his memory effaced—who most remembered as a towering lecturer in a fur coat or an indulgent Dandy, but who Jack remembered as a starved, broken man in prison.

Robbie Ross and a host of other friends had buried him a few days prior, and their roses were just visible under the snow. Jack contemplated the simple, Art Nouveau headstone and almost did not see the approaching shadow. "We've not yet been blown up by sub-atomic warfare, Algie."

"You didn't think you could slip away forever, did you, Jack?"

"Please spare me the Javert act. Torchwood has better things to do than chase me." He grinned. "I made you look a fool, but the crisis was averted. Carionites moved on, end of story. Score one for Britannia and Earth."

"Did you do it just to be a rogue? I can see no possible reason for you to risk the generous compensation we were willing to give." Scott sneered. "Unless Wilde appealed to your baser instincts."

"Now there's where you're wrong," said Jack, rising to his full height. "If you'd caught me, say, five minutes before I saved a blonde on a barrage balloon, I would have bought into your scheme. But then someone appealed to my _higher _instincts, and since then, I guess I've learned the vital importance of being earnest."

He smiled and reached for his gun in the same second, but Scott was quicker and got off a direct hit before disappearing. Jack fell, his coat caught on the wrought-iron gate surrounding Wilde's tomb. Before the darkness surrounded him, he heard voices, not so far off. A young man said, "That sounded like gun shots!"

A girl's voice said, "Shouldn't we got and investigate?"

"No, no, it's much too dangerous. We'd best get back to the TARDIS while we still can, my child!" It was an old man's voice. Jack thought he heard footsteps in the snow, and a very familiar wheezing sound . . .

I think I now better appreciate why _Torchwood's _season 1 writers had difficulty imbuing Jack with the same humor and charm as in _Doctor Who _season 1. I hope I've at least made him a little less serious than they did, though. I was nervous about the prospect of writing Oscar Wilde, and while I fear I've not done him justice, hopefully you can chalk it up to his state of mind in prison. There are a lot of loose ends, which I hope you'll forgive me. Jack will return one more time in a third story. As I write these stories, it's a Hydra effect—no sooner have I written one when another five ideas spring up in its place. So I crave indulgence for the reference at the end to a forthcoming adventure of the First Doctor, Steven and Vicki's in 1900 Paris. I am very much indebted to Barbara Belford's _Oscar Wilde: A Certain Genius _and Merlin Holland's _The Wilde Album. _


End file.
